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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26338369">(we'll make) a brand new start of it</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cirriform/pseuds/cirriform'>cirriform</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AND IF Y'ALL DON'T THINK THE HQ KIDS PLAY BALL ON IT Y'ALL ARE W R O N G, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore Fusion, Alternate Universe - Percy Jackson Fusion, Bad Puns, Camp Half-Blood (Percy Jackson), Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, General Teenage Dumbassery, Gratuitous Light Imagery, Insecure Oikawa Tooru, Mentions of Taylor Swift, Oikawa and Bokuto are unclaimed, Rare Pairings, THIS IS NOT IN THE FIC BUT PSA CAMP HALF-BLOOD HAS A VOLLEYBALL COURT, let's play guess who: oikawa's godly parent edition, literally just Oikawa and Bokuto talking about their feelings in a bathroom: the fic, this is a source of great Angst, two bros chillin in a bathroom (?)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:06:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,998</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26338369</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cirriform/pseuds/cirriform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two people in the Camp Half-Blood washroom at six in the morning.</p><blockquote>
  <p> <em>"Do you really think she'll claim you if you spike your hair like an owl every morning?"</em></p>
  <p>    <em>Bokuto says nothing at first. Just continues to fuss with his hair, poking and prodding and shaping it to be just right. Then, he says, "I don't know. Maybe."</em></p>
  <p>    <em>The <em>I hope so</em> goes unspoken. They are both well-acquainted with hope. Even after all these years of radio silence from his godly parent, Tooru can't quite seem to let go of it.</em></p>
  <p>    <em>Neither, it seems, can Bokuto.</em><br/></p>
</blockquote> <br/>Or, Tooru and Bokuto talk, sing bad Taylor Swift duets, and throw puns at each other (not necessarily in that order) at six am in the bathroom. A Percy Jackson AU.<p>Spiker-Setter Week, Day 3: Separation // <strong>Second</strong></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bokuto Koutarou &amp; Oikawa Tooru, Bokuto Koutarou/Oikawa Tooru, kinda. if you squint and you wanna see it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Haikyuu: Spiker-Setter Week</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>(we'll make) a brand new start of it</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>yeah this is almost 5k of pjo au but bokuto and oikawa don't leave the bathroom what about it</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are two people in the Camp Half-Blood washroom at six in the morning.</p><p>Tooru gets there first. He is nothing but punctual, and he refuses to lose even this to anyone else. He gets up extra early in the morning to get into the washroom, and he spends exactly thirty minutes brushing his teeth, washing his face, pinch-pull-pressing his hair to perfection, and generally fixing himself up for the day. At Camp Half-Blood, he's added showering to the routine, which is an absolute godsend—pun regretfully intended—and because Tooru likes to treat himself now that he's got running water at his disposal, he lets himself shower for twelve minutes a day, which brings his routine up to a whole forty-two minutes.</p><p>A good number, Tooru thinks almost every day without fail when he steps out of the washroom at 6:42 AM, ready to start the day, a number that some would call the meaning of life, though Tooru's not sure how much universal truth is supposed to be found in the sink or the shower drain. Perhaps in the mirror, he thinks sometimes, studying himself, surveying for any cracks in the facade and smoothing them over with a careful hand. But then again, perhaps not.</p><p>Forty-two minutes to start the day. It's a routine he's refined even through months on the road with Iwa-chan, even through the whirlwind first weeks at camp. He's no one's son, now, has nothing and no one to dress up for, but still Tooru thinks he's not ready to face the world without this. There's makeup, hair products, and face cream in the bag; his very own sword and shield against prying eyes. Tooru's learned to hide himself inside his mirror image, learned to tuck himself in at the corners, and because today is going to be a good day (he hopes), he steps into the shower with a song on his breath, and he sings as he washes away all traces of yesterday's imperfection.</p><p>For the first three minutes, he basks in the warmth, generally marvels at the technology of today, and lets the water run over him. The next six are spent scrubbing out all the regret and exhaustion of the previous day, followed by three minutes of pondering the day to come and sometimes, when he's feeling <em>really</em> good, a certified Oikawa Tooru rendition of some random pop song he's heard enough times to get stuck in his head.</p><p>"Hey hey hey, is that Taylor Swift I hear?" A voice comes yelling through the curtain, over the sound of running water. Tooru sighs; the second person has arrived—loudly, as he always does.</p><p>Bokuto Koutarou, though he never seems to show up at quite the same time each day, is the only other person at this camp who dares inhabit the washroom before six-thirty. Maybe he just wakes up with the sun, like a plant. Maybe, like Tooru, he's here to avoid the prying eyes of the seven o'clock rush. Whatever the reason, Bokuto shows up every morning without fail to shower, style his hair, and generally break Tooru's perfectly-good silence.</p><p>"Yoo-hoo, Kou-chan!" Tooru breaks verse to call out. "Are you a man of culture, as well?"</p><p>The response is immediate. Tooru's almost impressed. <em>"It's a love story, baby just say yes!"</em></p><p>Tooru laughs. It feels nice. Light.</p><p>He blinks. Two more minutes to go. He might as well make the most of it.</p><p>Tooru offers up an olive branch. Metaphorically, that is. "Want to sing it with me? "</p><p>The sound of a shower curtain opening. Water starts running, elsewhere, and Bokuto answers with an enthusiastic, "Heck yeah, bro!"</p><p>The next two minutes are dedicated to two demigods belting out Taylor Swift lyrics at the top of their lungs. Honestly, it's a wonder no one else has woken up yet, but Tooru supposes the pull of sleep is just stronger than any strange noises coming out of the washroom at six-fifteen in the morning.</p><p>They botch the transition to the bridge and the key change definitely could've gone a bit better, but Bokuto makes up for any wrong notes with relentless enthusiasm and Tooru is nothing if not good at working with others. Overall, not a bad way to start the day. Tooru steps out of the shower smiling.</p><p>Never let it be said that Oikawa Tooru does not have a good singing voice, though it's true that very few people are privy to it, despite the many inquiries from his fans. Bokuto is probably one of the only people at camp who's actually heard him sing before, but Tooru's also one of the only people at camp who's seen Bokuto with his hair down, so he figures they're even.</p><p>Tooru makes his way to the sinks. Now is when the real work begins. Tooru has an order to these things: he goes teeth, skin, hair, makeup—he has the process down to the very minute, although the products change depending on what the Hermes kids manage to rake in for the month. Fortunately, he's managed to snag some very nice oil and moisturizer from the girls in the Aphrodite cabin this month; they're surprisingly generous, though exceedingly vain, and for Tooru that means a bit of flattery and a touch of flirtation gets him exactly what he needs. Whether it's out of ego or the goodness of their hearts, Tooru guesses he'll never know, but what matters is the end result, so he'll count this as a win.</p><p>He's about halfway through his hair routine when Bokuto steps out of the shower. Apparently emboldened by their earlier duet, the other demigod is humming something that sounds vaguely jazzy under his breath.</p><p>"Frank Sinatra?" Tooru asks, fingers halfway deep in the hair gel of the week. It's a bit stronger than he's used to, but he figures he can still achieve the perfect bedhead look he's going for. It's salvageable.</p><p>From under the towel he's using to vigorously dry his hair, Bokuto grins back at Tooru. "You know it?"</p><p>Tooru shrugs, patting at a stray hair. "Jazz is nice."</p><p>Bokuto smiles, like he's said the right thing. "I play the saxophone," he admits, softly, like a secret. Then, he perks up. "Akaashi plays trombone! We're in the band together!"</p><p>Tooru watches himself move in the mirror. Makes sure all stray strands are deliberate, picks and preens at himself until the boy in the mirror is flawless, a smooth reflection of glass, unblemished and unbreakable.</p><p>He wonders what that boy would look like in a school uniform. Playing in a school band, or even playing in a sport. Would he have friends? Would he do well in school? Where would he go, from there? What did the future hold for this semi-normal Tooru, whose biggest worry was homework and getting a girlfriend?</p><p>"Is it nice," he muses, "being at regular school?"</p><p>Bokuto hums. He's moved on from drying his hair to brushing his teeth; his words come filtered through a thick layer of toothpaste, bubblegum-flavored. "It's lonely. And hard! Ugh, Oikawa-kun, math is so <em>weird!</em> Like, did you know numbers can go <em>backwards</em>? Like, like, there's numbers like one, four, and five, and then there's numbers that go <em>backwards</em> from there! Like, <em>behind</em> zero! Isn't that so weird?"</p><p>Tooru blinks at that. He turns to look at Bokuto to make sure he heard the other demigod right. Bokuto is spitting and rinsing, though, so it's not as effective.</p><p>"Those are called negative numbers, Kou-chan," he says. "Are you sure Athena's your mom?"</p><p>Bokuto glances up from his gurgling. His words are surprisingly understandable for someone talking through a mouthful of water. "Wow, Oikawa-kun, you're so smart!" He spits into the sink. Tooru makes a face. "But you know you don't have to be classic book-smart to be an Athena kid. Just because I'm not good at math doesn't mean I'm not good at other stuff, and just because I'm not the picture of an Athena kid doesn't mean I couldn't be one!"</p><p>Bokuto punctuates all that with two rapid splashes of water to his face. Then, he looks up and beams at Tooru. There's a bit of toothpaste on his smile that he's missed. Tooru's not sure if the whole display makes his statements weaker, or stronger.</p><p>But it's true that while Bokuto might not be the sharpest tool in the shed when it comes to spelling, reading, and, apparently, math, he's also a ridiculously talented swordsman. Tooru's seen him spar before, and the business end of Bokuto's sword is not a place he ever wants to find himself behind. Whatever Bokuto puts his mind to, be it sword fighting or military history or tying knots or even, in one memorable instance, rock painting, he dedicates himself wholeheartedly to it.</p><p>It's a sentiment Tooru can relate to. <em>Hit it until it breaks,</em> he thinks. A little voice that sounds all too similar to Iwaizumi growls at him, <em>But what if you break first?</em></p><p>Tooru exhales. He decides to follow Bokuto's example and splash some more water into his face—it helps, kind of. He doesn't feel any more grounded, but at least his face is cool. Literally. It's a stupid pun, one that doesn't even make any sense, but Tooru lets himself chuckle anyway.</p><p>"What's so funny?" Bokuto asks.</p><p>If it were anyone else, Tooru would probably bite out a snarky answer, like "your mom" or something—though "your mom" jokes aren't really things to be taken lightly, at a place like Camp Half-Blood.</p><p>But this is Bokuto. Quite possibly the most genuine person Tooru knows, and when he asks a question, it is both a blessing and a curse to know that he means it with all he has.</p><p>So Tooru tells the truth. Call it the genuine idiot in the room rubbing off on him.</p><p>"Made a stupid pun in my head," he mumbles, and tears his gaze back to the faucet and the mirror so as to avoid catching sight of Bokuto's reaction.</p><p>But Bokuto doesn't make fun of him. Doesn't even ask to hear the pun. He just grins and says, "Neat! I love puns! I think they're… <em>pun</em>-derful!"</p><p>Tooru clutches a hand to his heart and mimes fainting. As he falls daintily to the floor, he cries, "Oh no! The puns! They're rubbing off on me! Please, Kou-chan, resist it! <em>Resist</em> it!"</p><p>"I can't stop!" Bokuto cries. "It's too late! Go, run while you still can, Oikawa-kun—<em>owl</em> see you on the other side!"</p><p>Tooru laughs. <em>Really</em> laughs, like stitch-in-the-side, oh-that-was-a-knee-slapper laughs, laughs until there's almost tears pricking in his eyes because apparently prolonged exposure to Bokuto Koutarou leaves one prone to bouts of whatever this lightness in his chest is. He sits up from where he's fallen on the washroom floor, gets to his feet. It's got to be six forty-five or so, now; he should get going, go practice shooting or setting or bothering Iwa-chan or <em>something</em>, but today, for reasons unbeknownst to even Tooru, he decides to linger.</p><p>It's not a conscious thought. He just. Doesn't leave. If Bokuto notices something's different today, he doesn't say anything. He just starts with his hair—the source of all the owl puns.</p><p>Watching Bokuto do his hair is a strange experience. Tooru doesn't watch often; he did the first day they ran into each other, curiosity winning out over any sense of privacy, and he knows Bokuto doesn't mind the extra pair of eyes on his work, not really, but still. It feels like intruding, like he's watching something deeply personal and not meant to be shared. And Tooru knows it's just hair, he does, but. It still feels as exhilarating as it feels deeply wrong, somehow.</p><p>Bokuto starts off slow, drying his hair and then applying water to it. Then it's the process of adding hair gel and spreading it evenly—Bokuto, Tooru knows, gets his hair gel straight from Nishinoya Yuu, who'll be in the washroom at around seven-thirty and first in line for breakfast at eight. It's stiffer than the product Tooru uses and shinier, but Bokuto takes to styling his hair with such meticulous care that Tooru can't help but stare. The look of concentration on Bokuto's face wouldn't be out of place in a spar or a round of Capture the Flag. He pokes and prods at the strands of his half-bleached hair, shaping it like clay into its signature owl-like form.</p><p>It's always as uncomfortable as it is intriguing, to Tooru. Maybe because he undergoes his own transformation in the mornings—he's not a morning person, not really, it's something he's trained himself to be, like everything else, but without these forty-two minutes he thinks he'd be falling apart at the seams, held together only by scotch tape and Iwaizumi, on a good day. There's a constant scream building inside Tooru, waiting to be let out, but whatever thing within him trying to claw its way out his throat is sated, somehow, by the promise of warm water and hair gel; the cracks it leaves in his skin, he covers with moisturizer and foundation and pretends it's just a trick of the light.</p><p>"Still with the owls, today, Kou-chan?" Tooru asks. He's still not sure why he's lingering today, so he'll cover up his confusion with a comment, pretend this is fine, this is normal.</p><p>Bokuto laughs, pausing to give Tooru a thumbs up and a grin. His hands, covered with hair gel, shine almost as bright as his smile.</p><p>"Hoo else?" he says, and breaks into laughter at his own joke.</p><p>Bokuto laughs like thunder, loud and unapologetic. A lot of Bokuto is like thunder, Tooru thinks, and with his hair he brings the lightning. Tooru looks on with awe, and a bit of envy. And because today they've talked more than they ever have, and because Tooru's feeling extra daring, or something, he goes ahead and says what's on his mind, without second thoughts or a filter or anything.</p><p>"You know, I'm envious of you, Kou-chan," he says, playing off the sincerity of his words with a well-timed shrug. "You're so… <em>genuine."</em></p><p>Bokuto stops laughing at that, instead favoring an owlish blink down at Tooru.</p><p>"Thank you?" he says, and it's such a strange moment, Tooru standing in the doorway, halfway out, and Bokuto, hair half-up, thanking him in that ridiculous mix of awkward and genuine that only a flustered Bokuto can pull off. Tooru, for once, doesn't know what to think or say. Luckily, Bokuto saves the day by continuing to talk. "I think you're pretty genuine, too!"</p><p>Tooru snorts. If it wasn't Bokuto talking, he'd probably be offended. But Bokuto is the exception in a lot of things to a lot of people, so he takes it with a smile and a laugh and says, "Me? Genuine? Sounds like a walking contradiction, Kou-chan!"</p><p>Bokuto reddens, then huffs out a half-laugh as a way of recovery. "Fair play, Oikawa-kun!" He pauses to fix a particularly stubborn hair. "You're still a pretty cool dude, though!"</p><p>Tooru chews on that thought. It's weird, so he throws it away. Instead, he focuses on something else—Bokuto's hair, for example, which is rapidly turning into less of a mess of black-and-white hair and gel, and more the semblance of an owl it's meant to be.</p><p>Tooru bites his lip. It's an insensitive question, he knows, and he knows Bokuto must get it a lot, but the other demigod has been so <em>open</em> so far, and Tooru—he really does want to know. Partially because he's never satisfied without knowing everything he possibly can about, well, everything—his opponents, his teammates, the world—and partially because he genuinely curious about the other boy.</p><p>And, well. He can blame everything that follows on Bokuto rubbing off on him this morning.</p><p>"Do you really think she'll claim you if you spike your hair like an owl every morning?"</p><p>Bokuto says nothing at first. Just continues to fuss with his hair, poking and prodding and shaping it to be just right. Then, he says, "I don't know. Maybe."</p><p>The <em>I hope so</em> goes unspoken. They are both well-acquainted with hope. Even after all these years of radio silence from his godly parent, Tooru can't quite seem to let go of it.</p><p>Neither, it seems, can Bokuto.</p><p>"I got dared to do it, you know," says Bokuto. "Was playing Truth or Dare with the kiddos." He huffs a laugh, a smile playing on his lips. "One of 'em dared me to spike my hair up like an owl. Noya brought the gel, everyone else brought the cameras. And, well, you know me—so I did it! It looked <em>terrible</em> the first day, I put <em>way</em> too much gel in and it was super uneven, but—" Bokuto messes with another hair, pulling and patting it into place. "I kind of liked it, too? So I tried again the next day. And it was better. I liked the way I looked, you know? Made me feel like a badass. So I got some more hair gel from Noya the next week, and the next, and the next and the rest is history!"</p><p>Tooru is silent. There's nothing much to say, except— "It wasn't Kunimi or Kindaichi, right?"</p><p>The two of them aren't really the type to get into trouble like this, but games of Truth or Dare, especially Camp Half-Blood Truth or Dare, have a tendency to bring out the beast in them. He's sure Matsukawa and Hanamaki were probably involved, too, but Mattsun and Makki are forces to be controlled by no god or mortal on this earth, only harnessed to bring out the best of their ability. There's absolutely nothing Tooru can do about them.</p><p>Bokuto laughs and touches a finger to his lips. "Those privy to the meeting were sworn to secre—oh my gods that tastes terrible, get it off <em>get it off—"</em></p><p>A minute and a quick rinse later, Bokuto is finished gagging from his accidental sip of hair gel, and is back to telling Tooru of all the misdeeds his kids get up to behind his back. Not really. But a demigod can dream, Tooru thinks. No, Bokuto is back to the topic of his hair, which is arguably <em>more</em> interesting than even the upcoming schemes of Kunimi and Kindaichi.</p><p>"It makes me feel more connected to my mom, I guess," Bokuto's saying as he pats a few final strands into place. "Like, I'm saying she doesn't have to claim me for me to know that I'm hers? Like. I don't need a bed in Cabin Six or even to be Claimed—I just. Know."</p><p>Tooru's lip twists.</p><p>He hates that. He <em>hates</em> that, and he hates Bokuto Koutarou for saying that like it's nothing. His stomach clenches, his fists curl tight, he sees red and black for a moment before he shuts his eyes and rests his head on the mirror.</p><p>The glass helps cool his head—well, at least his physical forehead. Emotionally, he's still. Decidedly <em>not</em> cool.</p><p>How can Bokuto just <em>say</em> things like that? Tooru <em>doesn't</em> understand. That he doesn't need confirmation? That he just <em>knows?</em> And the worst part is, he believes it, with all his Bokuto heart. The utter <em>faith</em> he places into his godly parent—into his being <em>right</em> about his godly parent—is vaguely sickening to Tooru. He's glad his eyes are shut tight, because he's not sure what he looks like to the rest of the world, right now, and he doesn't want to see the look in Bokuto's eyes when he realizes the unshakable, unbreakable Oikawa Tooru is. Not quite the flawless boy in the reflection.</p><p>He opens his eyes. Bokuto is still styling his hair. Not for the first time, Tooru wonders just how long the other boy spends on his hair in the mornings. Tooru's usually gone by now, and they only run into each other again at breakfast. What Bokuto does with the rest of his morning is a complete and utter mystery to Tooru.</p><p>It's entirely possible that Bokuto spends his entire morning, from six-fifteen to eight o'clock, just styling his hair. The thought of mighty, thunderous Bokuto sitting in front of a mirror for nearly two hours fixing his hair, fretting about fixing this strand and that, the way Tooru is intimately familiar with, almost brings him to hysteric giggles.</p><p>But then he glances at the nearly-finished product, and Tooru remembers why he's leaning on his reflection, why he's feeling so sick in the first place.</p><p>"How?" he rasps out. No bravado, no dramatics, just a question, confused and a bit desperate. "How can you just… <em>know?"</em> <em>How can you be happy with just that?</em></p><p>Bokuto looks at him with nothing but genuine faith in his eyes—faith in himself, faith in the gods, faith in Tooru—and says, "I just do."</p><p>It's not a question. It's not an accusation. It's just a statement of fact, pure and simple. Bokuto says <em>I just do</em> like there's nothing more to it, like that admission of belief isn't the biggest leap of faith Tooru's ever seen anyone take in his life. Like it isn't the scariest thing in the world, putting your fate in the hands of the uncertain.</p><p>Because Tooru is a creature of proof. Everything he believes, he believes for a reason. The gods, aliens, Bigfoot—he has plausible evidence of existence for all of them. Blind faith is not something that computes.</p><p>But Bokuto is bright in all the ways Tooru is not; Bokuto is genuine in all the ways Tooru cannot; Bokuto shines in all the ways Tooru doesn't, and he <em>believes.</em> He believes with a faith so strong that Tooru can't help but stop and watch. He styles his hair every day without fail not because he can't stand the cracks in his reflection but because he wants to, because he believes in his mother, in who he thinks his mother is, and that's all he needs.</p><p>Tooru can't fathom it. Bokuto Koutarou is the exception, in many places, in many things, and he does not make any sense whatsoever.</p><p>Tooru wishes—gods, he <em>wishes</em> that were him.</p><p>"What if she's not?" he says, and he hates himself for asking because what if he questions Bokuto's beliefs and he breaks? Falls apart like putty in his hands? Tooru's seen Bokuto's moods before—in Cabin Eleven, <em>sad mood</em> is code for <em>someone get Akaashi now</em>. But Tooru's not Akaashi—if he were Akaashi, he wouldn't be asking these questions, he wouldn't be pushing, wouldn't be digging as deep as he can go, until he hits bedrock, until it breaks.</p><p>Tooru's not Akaashi. Tooru's barely a good person, these days—barely a good demigod, barely a worthy son. He tries and he tries and he works until his goals break or he does, and every day the smile on his face strains with the weight of it.</p><p>But Bokuto smiles like it's nothing, like it costs him nothing to toss these gigawatt grins around. He smiles even now, smiles for Tooru, when he turns and he says, "It's Athena." His yellow-wide eyes glow with all the warmth of campfires and none of the heat, when they gaze into Tooru's. "I know it is."</p><p>And just like that, Tooru's looking the fire head-on. Bokuto's finished his morning routine at last, and he's turned to face Tooru. It's a weird kind of stand-off, because they're not really standing off, just. Looking at each other. Maybe for the first time, for Tooru, at least.</p><p>They stand less than half an inch apart, he knows, because Tooru is petty but he's a <em>systematic</em> kind of petty, so he knows all the heights of his peers at camp and he knows just how to look at them so that it looks like he's looking down on them, no matter their height. There's another kid in Cabin Eleven who's mastered the technique, too—Tooru and Glasses-kun have stare-downs every now and then when they run into each other, though they usually come to a premature end by Iwaizumi dragging Tooru away or Freckles-kun dragging Glasses-kun off. Sometimes it's nice to win, even at something as small as who breaks first in a modified staring contest. Sometimes it's nice to see the kid break a smile when he's the one who wins—rare as those occasions are, since Tooru is <em>very</em> good at what he does and that includes looking down on people, thank you very much.</p><p>But this is not like those times. Tooru doesn't know what they're staring for—he just knows he can't back down. He feels pushed into a corner, pinned down, feels torn open and seen. And Tooru—</p><p>Tooru doesn't want to be known. Not like he is. People look at him and see the boy in the mirror, the reflection he chooses to cast into the world, the face he puts on every morning, meticulously arranges into place.</p><p>This is a choice, he thinks. This is a <em>choice,</em> he thinks, and wants—<em>needs,</em> for whatever reason—Bokuto to understand this, loud and clear.</p><p>But then, he thinks, Bokuto must already know. They both transform themselves, in the mirror of the washroom at six in the morning, away from prying eyes and the still-sleeping world. He's seen Bokuto with his hair down, and Bokuto's heard him sing Taylor Swift in the shower at six am.</p><p>Tooru thinks that Bokuto must <em>get</em> something to him that the others don't. There's a camaraderie between all the unclaimed—the bond of unwanted, of those left behind. But there is something aching in Tooru, still—something that longs to run free, something that watches the sun set on the horizon, painting the world in strokes of red-yellow-gold, and he <em>longs.</em></p><p>He doesn't know if Bokuto gets that. He doesn't know if anyone does, really. But Bokuto doesn't look down on him, even with the almost half-inch he has on Tooru. Tooru doesn't think he knows <em>how.</em></p><p>Bokuto, Tooru thinks, is a breath of fresh air. He looks at the golden-eyed boy and wonders how he's never seen him before, not really, when he claims to know all his cabin-mates so well.</p><p>It's an unfamiliarity tinged with excitement. Tooru's heart skips a beat to think of it.</p><p>"We should do this again sometime," says Bokuto, and the moment breaks. Tooru should count this as a victory—he counts them every day, the small victories he wins against others, against the world, against himself—but for some reason, this feels more like a draw. Like they're both conceding, somehow, to the other.</p><p>Tooru tilts his head to one side, confused. "Do what?"</p><p>"This!" says Bokuto, making a sweeping motion with his hands. Tooru looks around, bewildered, before his eyes finally come back to Bokuto. "Duets in the shower, deep conversations at the sink. Oh, and the pun wars! We should have a second round. I don't know… The Second Great Pun War?"</p><p>"What makes it so great?" Tooru replies cheekily. "Aw, Kou-chan, is it me?" He strikes a pose. Cue the sparkles. Bokuto laughs. Close enough, Tooru thinks.</p><p>"Uh, duh!" Bokuto replies, his expression nothing but earnest. "I thought that was obvious? They call you the Great King, right?"</p><p>Tooru winces. Where did that nickname even come from, anyway? And who even calls him that? If he had to guess, he'd say one of those pesky newbies in Cabin Eleven came up with it—probably during one of those sworn-to-secrecy meetings Bokuto mentioned, too.</p><p>Tooru pushes thoughts of his cabin aside, and instead gives Bokuto a cheerful smile. "I was born on the same day as Alexander the Great, if that's what you're asking! They called him the Great King, you know," he says cheerfully. "But arguably, I'm greater than him, as far as demigod blood goes, because he's only distantly related to Zeus and Thetis through his parents. So I guess you could call me the <em>Greater</em> King!"</p><p>Gods. It's only been an hour or two since he woke up, and the sound of his own voice is already starting to grate on his nerves. Bokuto returns his smile to him, though, and somehow that reimbursement makes Tooru's smile grow into something halfway genuine.</p><p>"I guess we should call it the Second <em>Greater</em> Pun War, then, huh, Oikawa-kun?" Bokuto says. He starts making his way to the door, and Tooru senses, suddenly, that the sun is getting higher and the seven o'clock washroom rush is almost upon them.</p><p>Their time is drawing to a close.</p><p>But before that—Tooru's hand catches on Bokuto's wrist, stopping him in place before he walks out the door and into the daylight.</p><p>"Call me Tooru," he says. His heart hammers in his chest, and his vision swims, but Tooru thinks, loud and clear, that this is his leap of faith.</p><p>He can't give any more than this. Not yet.</p><p>But for now, it's enough.</p><p>Bokuto takes the name from him gently. His face breaks into a smile that shines like the sun when he says, "Okay, Tooru."</p><p>It's six-fifty when they walk out the door. Fifty minutes to get ready for the day—it's not a number that means anything to Tooru, not yet, but he thinks that it might, someday. Tooru's not done running, yet, but he thinks he's ready to concede this round, if only to Bokuto. Tooru's hand is tight around Bokuto's wrist, but Bokuto hasn't let go yet.</p><p>Two people walk into the Camp Half-Blood washroom at six in the morning. Tooru is the first one there, because he is nothing but punctual and will not give this up to anyone, not yet. Bokuto is the second, and he brings in the sunshine, the song, the summer.</p><p>Together, they leave behind the washroom, and step into the daylight.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>y'all, I spent. so. long. looking stuff up for this fic. did I know how hair gel worked before this? no. did I know how morning routines in general worked before this? no. never let it be said that fanfic is not educational</p><p>also! the title of this fic is from the song <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=le1QF3uoQNg">New York, New York</a>, which is also the song Bokuto's humming. but! the original singer of "New York, New York" is actually <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5-pyc_z7WbY">Liza Minnelli</a>, not Frank Sinatra! Sinatra popularized the song, and his version is played more often nowadays. they're both fantastic singers and performers tho! I just. jazz bokuto rights y'all, pLEASE</p><p>(for real though, thank you for reading. it means a lot. wherever you are, whenever you are reading this, I hope you have a nice day/night, and thank you for stopping by &lt;3)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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